


Laundry Distractions

by maxthebd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxthebd/pseuds/maxthebd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He held his breath until he remember that Sherlock wouldn't be texting, and sank into what he affectionately dubbed “Sherlock-mode”.</p>
<p>People-watching with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry Distractions

Between dirt (running around London somehow kicked up an awful lot of it), bloodstains (he lives with Sherlock Holmes), saliva (some people were born disgusting) and semen (he will forever pretend that case never happened), John Watson spent a lot of time at the laundrette. 

Add in Sherlock's propensity for sneaking his clothing into John's laundry duffle (the lazy sod) and therefore some days were longer than others. Particularly when clean clothes were concerned.

Then again, Sherlock never bothered to text him whenever John ducked out to the laundrette. He'd bother figuring out why on another day, until then, he'd enjoy the next two Sherlock-less hours for all they were worth.

Sliding into an empty seat and letting his back kiss the wall, he waited for five minutes with one eye on his phone. He held his breath until he remember that Sherlock wouldn't be texting, and sank into what he affectionately dubbed “Sherlock-mode”.

People-watching with a _twist_.

Like the two errr, voluptuous women in the corner eyeballing the bulletin board. American expats, not used to British cuisine. They're related, he'd guess, mother and daughter. One look at “Mummy” though and all John could think was “battle axe.”

Stifling a smile, he got a better look without being terribly obvious. Recently divorced, judging by the fading tan line on her ring finger. The look of scorn she just leveled at him (he'd realize later that he was loading one of Sherlock's semen-covered bedsheets – Queen and Country, Queen and Country, dear sweet fucking Christ) but he also guessed that Mummy just discovered her true love (Americans and their dreaded romance) was a, he cocked his head and watched the woman's eyes rove over a relatively fit bird, he was right (ha-ha), Mummy batted for Harry's team.

How quaint.

If he were anyone else, he'd marvel. If this were anywhere else, well, it wasn't, moving on.

The washer signaled the round's end, so he transferred the load of sheets and clothing to a dryer, freezing in place when the hair on the back of his neck prickled with warning.

Spinning slowly, he moved to what was his chair, only to see someone already in it.

John kept his eyes low, starting at the person's shoes.

Bespoke, definitely. Probably worth more than Mycroft's umbrella.

Then again – a fast glimpse of the shoe's sole showed definite signs of wear and tear.

John refused to put more thought into Mycroft's umbrella.

Bespoke trousers hugged a rather-wait, John's lips pursed with irritation. He glanced at his phone, no texts, before he continued his investigation of the chair thief.

A stupidly familiar aubergine shirt that he knew felt like silk (he absolutely did not wank with it when Sherlock tossed it into his laundry bin) and well, that answered that question.

“John,” Sherlock crossed one long leg over its brother and leveled a storm-blue smolder at his blogger. “I know today is laundry day, but I'm craving stimulation.”

John swallowed hard, his mouth torn between being dry and wanting to smile, since all he heard was “the flat got lonely.”

“This place is absolutely filthy. You clean your clothes here- that's it, we're paying, better yet, I'm paying for laundry pickup from now on. Then again, I do hope you noticed the sheet you washed, I thought of you as I wa-”

“Too much information, Sherlock.”

He drawled John's name out long enough to sound like an illicit moan before drawling “no information is too much information.”

“So you do remember Star Wars?” He stepped forward, letting the same young woman from earlier walk by with a buggy full of towels.

Sherlock scoffed. “Pop Culture. Can't you waste your little brain on something else?”

“Like?” John offered, jumping when the detective smirked and stood, immediately in John's personal bubble.

If the following words didn't tell John everything on Sherlock's mind, the predatory grin did. “The feel of my clean sheets against your back.”

His blood heating, John looked to the wall and fumbled his answer. “Load finishes in ten."

"Brilliant."


End file.
